Five Minutes
by deep-in-the-woods
Summary: There's a very empty backstage changing room and you're both going to have to remedy that. – More info inside.


**Warnings:** Smut/PwP/Lemons. Whatever you call it, there's a lot of it. If this isn't your cup of tea, I suggest you back out.  
><span><strong>Setting:<strong> Actually, this can fit behind the scenes of the first episode.  
><span><strong>AN:** As mentioned, this is a smut piece with a little bit of story weaved in it. I dislike reading or writing OC's (and there's already so many in this fandom so far), so I went in another direction and decided to go with a second person female perspective. It was tricky and I know the narrative style isn't for everyone, but I had fun with the challenge. All in all, I think it turned out rather alright. Usually, I feel dirty and guilty after writing something like this, so I'm just going to post it now without thinking about it much. Enjoy.

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><p>Nine forty-five. Just another fifteen minutes and you can finally change out of your heels, take the train home, and fall asleep on the couch with a book in your lap you'll eventually get around to reading. Hopefully your relief will show up early for a change and you can ditch Mr. Can-I-Get-Your-Number-I've-Lost-Mine before he starts trying to reach over the bar again to get your attention. You give the lush your best 'I'm-paid-be-nice' smile and try to look busy by counting out the register, straightening out the crumpled bills into neat stacks.<p>

The music on stage fades away, replaced by the applause and wolf whistles of the audience and you glance up in time to see a group of burlesque dancers take a bow. Over the top of a booth, you can just make out Fish Mooney herself reach out a hand to pluck a glass off the tray of her newest boy toy; gold bangles catching the light. It's an intermission of a sort as the next act gathers their instruments on stage, and your eyes try to pick out a particular face in the crowd just one last time before you clock out for the night. Oddly enough, he's nowhere near Mooney or her generic lineup of thugs, possibly off running an errand of some kind.

Shrugging off your slight disappointment, you print out the register's statement before starting on the coins. Just as you're counting out the dimes and directing people to the next welcoming bartender, a tap at your shoulder distracts you and you rein in a curse. Was it a dollar sixty? Eighty? Dumping the dimes, you glance over your shoulder and there he is. Irritation melting away, you lean back against the bar and give Oswald a smile reserved just for him, free of charge.

"Hey there." You want to ask him about the cops you saw earlier since Bullock never shows up unless there's something going down, but you don't. There's danger in knowing too much and it's comfortable sitting in the gray area of deniability.

"Good evening," his eyes briefly catch yours before shifting away past your shoulder, keeping an eye on Mooney most likely. The woman pays well for silence and loyalty, but the way she rides everyone chafes at you raw, especially in Oswald's case. "Miss Mooney would like you to bring our best wine to the backstage changing room in five minutes as a sign of appreciation to our band."

You check your watch, just under ten minutes left in your shift to finish counting out the register. _Of course_ that woman would pull something like this just last-minute, but you know better than to let anyone overhear you complain. "Does she want it chilled over ice or should I break out the wine pearls? I'm kind of in a rush here and –"

"Five minutes," he repeats and there's a deliberate slowness now with the way his eyes meet yours.

And that's when it clicks. There's no need to bring wine because Mooney doesn't give things away. There's just a very empty backstage changing room and you're both going to have to remedy that.

It started innocently enough, like most things often do here, over drinks. On a slow night with the low murmur of voices carrying over the music, he sat down at the bar and ordered a shot of whiskey. You knew him by sight, but not by name since much of the staff like to turn a blind eye to the men Mooney likes to call her 'boys' and what they do in the back alleys. There was talk, of course. Always talk, but no one ever said a word about what you were signing up for when you applied for the job. And like joining the Mafia, there you were, stuck in the company of criminals with no chance of simply walking away unscathed after all the shady dealings you've witnessed going on in the background.

Careful around Mooney's boys, you tried not to giggle when he threw back his drink and choked. You failed and tried to cover by rambling on about how he didn't look like the whiskey type anyway until he stops you with a shy smile, thumbing the last of the liquor off his lips. _And what type do I look like, Miss...? _Relieved he seemed civil enough for a chat for now, you told him your name and the two of you spent the rest of the night trying out different drinks, finding the perfect one.

Never quite nailed it, but you did find something of a friend that night. Since then, he'd greet you with a word here, a nod of hello there. Occasionally he'd stop by and try a new drink and you learned the lines of his face when something was too sour. Too sweet, too strong. The way he liked to breathe in the liquor before every sip… and the way his eyes would search out yours from across the club. Funny how he always found them looking his way, and it was then that you finally decided to take a chance.

It was drizzling when you asked him to meet him out back, the chill of the air raising the little hairs on your arms. His umbrella preceded him and you realized then that it was the closest you two had ever been without a bar in-between. For lack of anything to say, he awkwardly remarked about the weather and you kissed him. No build up, no nothing. Just jumped right in. His lips parted more out of shock than want, umbrella slipping from his grasp. It was chaste, but lingering until he pulled away speechless. For a split-second, you feared you read the signs wrong and you started to mumble out something – _anything_ – to make a quick escape, until he pulled you in for another. You were soaked when you came back from your break, but grinning like mad.

It's been a several weeks since that day and you're still not sure what exactly you two are to each other and you're fine with that. Friend, lover, mistress maybe. He's never invited you to his place and you've never asked. He could live with an over-protective mother for all you knew. All you do know is that you've grown to like this secret fling going on; of his rushed kisses and hungry touch in places where you knew you _could_ get caught but never actually _did_.

He stuttered and apologized and fumbled through the first few encounters, but he was eager to please; the perfect student. Soon enough, he's had you perched on the bar before the club opened, legs spread while he touched you in places that made you instantly glad you had a change of clothes in your locker. Another time after the club closed for the night, you returned the favor by leading him by his tie into Mooney's office and the memory of his groans still makes you smirk to this day. You two have even made something of a game of it, each taking turns choosing where you'll fool around next.

But _this_? This was different. Anyone can walk into the dressing room since the door never locks right and the club is still in full swing. You'll have fifteen, maybe twenty minutes tops before the acts change out and they'll need that room. It was risky... but then you've always been a little reckless to not care in the slightest.

"Five minutes," you grin and you can tell by the way his lips curl into a wicked smile that his imagination is practically overflowing, each idea of what he plans to do to you filthier than the last. You'll have to remember to ask him to describe them sometime. "Got it."

With a nod, he leaves without another word and you know he plans to make himself scarce until you meet him. Getting back to the register, you think you've missed counting a good five bucks in change, but you don't care to slow down. Half-assed but done, you shout a goodbye to your co-worker and rush to clock out with a minute to spare. By the time you reach the dressing rooms, the first few notes of the band start to play. You find him pacing in the small room in front of the floor length mirrors and there's something about the way he's stripped himself of his suit jacket, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, that makes you instantly want to undo the rest. Slowly, button by button.

"You're _insane_," you laugh when he crosses the room and buries his face in your neck, lips closing over the racing pulse he finds there. He might have laughed too, but you couldn't really tell when he presses you against a wall, his hands seemingly unable to stay in one place as he shakily works the buttons off your blouse. Despite all the times he's done this already, he was easy to fluster and you still find it amazingly endearing.

"Perhaps," he says and you love the way his breath plays against the shell of your ear, fingers sinking into your flesh. "If this is inanity, then it certainly has its perks."

He's already flushed, the heat in his cheeks clashes horribly with his complexion but you've never minded. But there's something about the way he's more forceful tonight, a barely contained excitement even, that makes you pull back and get a good look at him.

"Something going on I should know about?" Stalling, his fingers tease the edge of your skirt, slowly hiking it up over your thighs, his touch inching up your skin.

"Everything is going to be different soon," he says before landing a kiss at the hollow of your throat and trailing down the rise of your breast in a way that makes you almost forget what you were worried about in the first place. _Almost_ – until you remember those cops from before and you think that change coming from them doesn't sound like a good thing.

Your fingers knot in his hair, the music pulsing through the wall from behind you, and all you can mange out is a semi-coherent, "H-how different?"

"You'll see," is all he says as he gets down on his knees and you follow his lead, draping your leg over his shoulder and he pulls your panties to the side and… screw it, you'll weasel it out of him another time.

That's it, no more talking now. No thinking, just the sensation of his breath hovering over the apex of your thighs before his mouth meets the center. His tongue dips into your slickness before swirling up around your clit and you sigh at the contact. Briefly, you glimpse your reflection in the mirror and realize that _this_ is the reason why he picked this spot. Clever bastard plans for everything.

You watch your refection as he reaches between your thighs and you're glad the music is loud enough for you to gasp when he slowly inserts one finger, then two. You start to roll your hips onto his fingers, needing that delicious friction, and his other hand still griping your thigh clenches down so hard you wonder if he ever gets off seeing the bruises he leaves behind. You sure as hell do.

Clapping a hand over your own mouth, you fail to hold back a moan when he speeds up the pace, lips sucking tighter on your clit. You feel a pleased brief exhale when the pleasure starts to build, washing over you and coming in waves, each more intense than the last. Everything's too much and not enough and suddenly, you decide that you want to take him along with you for the ride.

"Oswald... _please_," you barely make out and he pulls back with a self-satisfied wet smile you have to remember to get back at him for.

He doesn't have to be told twice. With one last lick that makes your legs shake, you tug him up off his knees and kiss the taste of yourself from his lips while you grip him through his slacks. Tugging down the zipper, you pull him out and run your thumb across the moist tip and he moans into your mouth, inhaling deeply. He seemed just as impatient because with a strength you hadn't realized he had, he props you up against the wall and your legs settle around his waist.

One last kiss, and he angles and pushes up and into you, letting out a low groan as he slides you down to the hilt. You arch against the wall, one hand fisting the front of his shirt and the other gripping the back of his neck. Everything is slick and hard to hang on to but it feels so good and you just –

The applause coming from outside down the hallway drowns out a cry that fell from your lips as he starts to move against you, eyes blown and locked on yours as he pulls out by inches, then slides smoothly back in just as agonizingly slow. He's thicker than you remember, and the dull burn of adjusting to his size makes you gasp. Still you grind back, and the low shuddering groan that it draws out of him makes it entirely worth it.

Another song starts up as he shudders, pressing his chest against yours, the smooth texture of his vest dragging across your nipples spilling from your bra. He speeds up, hips slamming against yours as you roll against him and kiss him; all teeth and tongue and fire. Through the haze of stars clouding your sight, you watch the way he pumps into you from the mirror, slacks sliding lower off his narrow hips with every thrust.

Trying to fight the building pressure and savor every second, you're vaguely aware of his fingers trailing down your belly and to your clit again, shaking but gently rubbing and sending you careening over the edge. You clench around him, digging your nails into his shoulder, feeling the heat pool inside you and burst. He joins you a second after with a groan and the look in his blown eyes is almost enough to bring you to the brink again when a delicious heat blooms inside of you, making you shudder and clench, milking him dry. You ride it out with him with his face buried into your breasts.

You're boneless against him, and after a breathless few moments, he lets you drop your toes down to the floor, shaky and raw and satisfied.

"I'm assuming you didn't get a chance to bring the wine, did you?" Oswald says at last, his breath evening out against your skin.

Mind still fuzzy, you have no idea what he's talking about and it took a real effort to remember. You could have sworn he made up the wine thing up as an excuse, a polite request no one would pay any mind to if he was overheard. Apparently not.

"Dammit," you sigh. You are seriously not looking forward to walking back to the bar this sore and thoroughly screwed.

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><p><span><strong>AN:** Welp, I did it. I'll likely not touch this again for a while so if you find anything that needs correcting or whatever, let me know through a PM so I can get to it after I've drowned my shame with beer. Hope you enjoyed.


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